The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(91)

“No,” Poppy said, because how could she explain it? If she told Georgie what she was feeling, she’d have to tell her why .

Georgie didn’t believe her; that was easy enough to see. But Georgie didn’t press, and instead she said, “Well, if you ever decide that you are crying, I am happy to . . . do . . . whatever it is you need.”

Poppy smiled at her cousin’s awkward attempt at solace. She reached out and squeezed Georgie’s hand. “Thank you.”

Georgie nodded, recognizing that Poppy didn’t wish to talk about it, at least not yet. She glanced up at the sky, shading her eyes even though the sun was mostly obscured by clouds. “You should probably come in soon. I think it’s going to rain.”

“I like the fresh air,” Poppy said. She’d been stuck in her cabin on the way back to England too. Mr. Walpole had been in too much of a rush to find her an English-speaking chaperone, so she had traveled with the same Portuguese housemaid who had picked out her dress. And her sister, since the housemaid couldn’t very well travel back to Lisbon on her own.

Regardless, both girls refused to step foot outside their cabin. Which meant Poppy was shut in too. Mr. Walpole had assured her that the captain could be trusted with her safety and virtue, but after all that had happened, she hadn’t wanted to risk it.

The food hadn’t been as good as on the Infinity either.

And she didn’t know what had happened to Andrew. Mr. Walpole had told her she wouldn’t know either. “You will be well on your way back to England, Miss Bridgerton. He will not follow for some time, I imagine.”

If ever. He did not include that in the sentence, but it had hung heavily on the air.

“But even then,” she’d pressed, “for my peace of mind. Will you send word? James is a very common surname. It would be impossible for me to find out on my own . . .”

She’d trailed off at his look of disdain.

“Miss Bridgerton. Do you really think that his surname is truly James?” At her blank look, he’d continued, “This is in service to your king. You have already been told never to breathe a word of this. For you to go searching for a man who does not exist would draw what I am sure is unwanted attention to these weeks that will undoubtedly be questionable in your calendar.”

As set-downs went, it was blistering, but when he’d delivered his next sentence, all energy for retort washed out of her.

“It is unlikely you will ever see Captain James again.”

“But—”

Mr. Walpole silenced her with a mere gesture. “Whether we extricate him or not, it will be in the interest of national security that he not go looking for you. And whether you are inept at following orders is irrelevant, Miss Bridgerton, because I assure you he is not.”

She had not believed it. No, she had not wanted to believe it. Andrew had said he would escape. He said he would find her.

But she wasn’t that hard to find. So either he was dead—which she could hardly bear to contemplate—or everything Mr. Walpole had said was true, and she would never see him again.

He followed orders. She knew that he did—it was why he’d taken her to Portugal instead of clearing out the cave and leaving her in Charmouth. It was why he did not read the messages he carried.

It was why he would not come for her even if he wanted to.

And why she had no idea whom she was so angry with—him, for sending her away even though she knew it was the right thing to do; Mr. Walpole, for making it so painfully clear that she would never see Andrew again; or herself.

Because she felt so damn helpless.

“Were you outside last night?” Georgie asked.

Poppy turned lethargically toward her cousin. “Just looking at the stars.”

“I thought I saw someone from my window. I had not realized you were a student of astronomy.”

“I’m not. I just like looking at the stars.” They hadn’t been as brilliant as out at sea, though. Or maybe it was just that the sky seemed to hold more power and sway when one stood on the deck of a ship, face tipped to the heavens.

Andrew’s hands had been on her hips. She had felt the heat of his body, the strength of it.

But she hadn’t understood.

So much. There was so much she hadn’t understood.

And now . . . It was laughable, really. Here she was, lamenting her younger, innocent self as if she were such a lady of experience. She still knew nothing. Almost nothing.

“Well, I’m going to go in,” Georgie said as she rose to her feet. “I want to have enough time to dress for dinner. Are you coming?”

Poppy started to say no; dinner wasn’t for several more hours, and she felt no great need to fuss over her appearance. But Georgie was right—it did look as if it might rain. And as hopeless and numb as she felt right then, she had no wish to catch her death in a downpour.

“I’ll come with you,” she said.

“Wonderful!” Georgie linked her arm through Poppy’s, and they began their stroll back to the house.

Dinner with the neighbors was a good idea, Poppy decided. She didn’t want to go, but what she wanted lately hadn’t seemed to make her feel any better. She’d have to put on a good front, pretend she was happy and cheerful and the same Poppy she’d always been. Maybe if she tried hard enough, she’d start to believe it.